


Between Sand and Stone

by tiranog



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 03:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10890489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiranog/pseuds/tiranog
Summary: Spock makes an alarming discovery after the events of Amok Time.





	Between Sand and Stone

The corridor was deserted.  While no starship ever turned out its common area illumination completely, the lights were dimmed at ship’s night to mimic Earth’s circadian rhythm.

Commander Spock stood in the shadowed hall outside his captain’s cabin, mentally debating his course of action.  He was unaccustomed to uncertainty.  Normally, he decided the most logical course of action and followed through without hesitation.  It was the Vulcan way. 

Spock knew what logic dictated in this situation.  He knew what he had to do; only, it was proving most . . . difficult.  Once again, the Human side that had tainted his blood and mind since birth, preventing him from being a proper Vulcan, was insisting that he refuse logic’s counsel.  Always in the past, that part of him was overruled and ruthlessly forced into submission.  Emotions were a weakness no true Vulcan indulged.

As often happened when he was torn by his conflicting halves’ opposing desires, Spock’s mind turned back to one of his earliest memories for guidance.  He hadn’t even reached his third year of life at the time.  His mind was still untrained, leaving him prone to disgraceful emotional outbursts.  After one such horrible incident, Sarek had led him out to the desert behind their home.  His father had stopped at the edge of his mother’s pitiful garden and pointed to one of the huge boulders that dotted the Vulcan landscape.  “Logic is like that stone, Spock.  Strong and undefeatable.  If you trust in it and follow its precepts, it will keep you safe through all adversity.  Emotion is like the sand.  It shifts constantly and is unstable.  It cannot be trusted.  You must think of your mind as your home, Spock.  When you are constructing your home, do you want to use materials that will endure and protect you from the elements?  Or would you choose to build with an unstable element like sand that will shift and crumble under the first breeze?”

That was the point at which Spock’s recall usually terminated and he allowed himself to be comforted by Sarek’s wisdom.  Logic was stone.  Being solid and impermeable like rock was obviously the preferred path to follow. 

But tonight, standing at odds with himself outside his captain’s quarters, he followed through on the memory.  Presented with such unchallengeable logic, Sarek had waited for Spock to make the expected deduction – that only a fool would choose the sands of emotion.  However, the Human in Spock had still been fighting for his emotional survival back then.  Rather than give his father the expected response, Spock had challenged with, “But do not both sand and stone support us when we walk, father?  Stone is strong, but if it is struck with a denser object, stone shatters and loses its integrity.  Sand shifts under adversity and weathers the blow.”

That was the first time Spock had seen his father truly flummoxed.  He knew he should not be proud of such an accomplishment and, as an adult, he worked to forget his rejection of his father’s attempt to help him.  But his years among Humans had made Spock realize that his three-year old self had seen a truth that Vulcan preferred not to acknowledge.  There was strength in flexibility.  Blasphemous and disappointing as it might be to a Vulcan, sometimes being able to view a problem through something other than logic’s lens could be useful.

But such acknowledgements were of no help to him now.  36.7 years later, Spock once again found himself lost between sand and stone.

And, for the first time ever, it was not his Human half that was at fault.  It was his Vulcan blood that was about to destroy him. 

That was perhaps an exaggeration.  Spock reprimanded himself for the melodramatic thought.  The actions logic dictated he follow would not kill him; at least, not immediately.  If his Human half felt as if his world were ending, then perhaps the Vulcan side was right and it was time to end the emotional indulgences in which he’d permitted himself to become embroiled.  Either way, he really had no choice. 

Taking a deep, bracing breath, Spock approached the door to his captain’s quarters.  There was, of course, no gap between the sliding door and its frame to allow light to exit.  There was no way any passerby would be able to know if the rooms’ occupant were awake or sleeping, as this late hour would suggest.  But Spock knew his captain – that was, after all, the heart of his problem.  Despite the late hour, Spock could sense Kirk behind those doors, conscious and occupied.

Presented with yet another incontestable argument as to the necessity of his action, Spock rang the buzzer.

Normally, Kirk would use the intercom to inquire as to the identity of his late-night visitor and reason for the interruption, but Kirk’s door opened, accompanied by a distracted sounding, “Come.”

“Captain,” Spock greeted.

Kirk was seated at his desk, stylus and tablet in hand, obviously working his way through the administrative workload.  “You’re up late, Mr. Spock.”

Kirk’s accompanying smile was warm, his eyes bright with welcome.  He was wearing the green tunic with its gold braid.  That shirt always seemed to accentuate the green highlights in Kirk’s changeable eyes.

Everything in Spock cried out that he not do this.  There had to be another way . . . .

Except, Spock had searched for an alternative and he could not see it.  As ever, he was trapped between sand and stone.  If he gave into sand, then both he and his captain would suffer for it.  If he sheltered in stone, he alone would bear the brunt of the consequences, which was as it should be.

Tightening his resolve, Spock responded with a conversational, “As are you.”

Spock cursed himself a coward.  He knew what needed to be done.  Small talk would only prolong the situation.  It was not logical, but his very soul seemed to ache at the thought of what must follow.  If there was any other way out of this, he would take it, but his conscience wouldn’t allow him to put his captain at risk.

Kirk’s smile brightened to nearly stellar magnitude.  “Sometimes I think the Enterprise depends more on paperwork than dilithium crystals to function.”

“The smooth operation of this vessel does seem to generate an inordinate amount of it.”

Kirk nodded towards the second chair.  “Pull up a seat.”

Spock stayed rooted where he stood.  “I don’t want to interrupt you if you’re occupied.”  _Coward_.  

“You’re never an interruption.  I’m done for the night,” Kirk said, turning off the tablet before placing it and the stylus on his desk.  “So, what’s up?”

Spock opened his mouth to answer, but no sound emerged.  In fact, his mouth ran dry so suddenly that he felt as parched as his mother’s Earth plants had been in her Vulcan garden.  It was as if this very conversation were inimical to his being.

“It can’t be as bad as all that,” Kirk joked, but his eyes had sharpened upon Spock.

That perceptive gaze always saw too much, things that Spock would rather keep hidden.  Perhaps if he stood here long enough, his captain would divine his purpose and there would be no need for this impossible conversation.

“Spock?”

There was nothing for it.  Spock straightened his posture and forced the words out, “I find that I must request an immediate transfer.  The Enterprise will be passing Starbase III next week.  It would be a convenient opportunity to –”

“A _transfer_?” Kirk repeated the word as if Spock had made his request in his native tongue and Kirk had no idea what the foreign word meant. 

“Yes, sir.  A transfer.”

Kirk’s next question took a course Spock had not foreseen in the countless times he had enacted this conversation in his mind, but, then, James Kirk always had a gift for surprising him.  “Has something in my approach to command or one of my actions initiated this request?”

It was a logical deduction, Spock realized, wondering how he had failed to predict how this incredibly conscientious individual would see such an action as a reflection upon his own performance.  They both knew that most times when a Starfleet officer requested a transfer, it was because of personality conflicts with superior officers.

Kirk appeared braced for the worst.

Spock immediately offered, “No, nothing like that.  You are the finest officer I could hope to serve under.”

Kirk relaxed infinitesimally into his seat.  Although he still seemed pained by the prospect of Spock leaving the Enterprise, Kirk seemed to force himself to continue.  “I’ve been dreading this day.  I didn’t notice anything in the most recent Starfleet postings, but has a command you’re interested in opened up?  You know I’ll give you a glowing recommendation.  You’re more than ready for a command of your own.”

The hunger for their own command was, of course, the second reason why most First Officers requested a transfer.

“No, I have no desire for command.  I’m requesting a lateral transfer to the first Science Officer position that becomes available.”

“Spock, I don’t understand.  I thought you were happy, I mean, content here.”  The nearly instantaneous editing and correction reinforced how well his captain knew him.  Kirk’s mind fixed onto the only other explanation that presented itself.  “Do any of the new crew members we picked up on Altair IV have a problem working with a Vulcan?  If that’s the case, they’re the ones we’ll be dropping off at Starbase III.”

The resolve that hardened Kirk’s expression moved the part of him Spock struggled most to subdue.  While all Starfleet captains adhered to the Federation’s nondiscrimination rules, James Kirk was passionately committed to them.  It was that very trait that had brought Spock to his current predicament.  If this man had been more like Captain Pike, an efficient commander whose main focus was the smooth operation of his vessel, Spock would not be undergoing this crisis.  He would gladly have given his new commanding officer the required respect, while maintaining his distance in his private life, as he had with Christopher Pike.  But James Kirk was the living embodiment of Vulcan’s IDIC philosophy.  Jim didn’t view what was alien and unknown as dangerous.  He always sought to understand, to build bridges where differences existed and bring disparate beings together in harmony.  Spock knew few Vulcans who could greet the universe with Kirk’s lack of personal prejudice.   _Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations_ were more than just words to this man.  It was how Jim Kirk chose to live his life.  There was simply so much to admire about this man that Spock had been no more capable of resisting his captain’s offers of friendship than he was of refusing his next breath. 

“No, the new crew are working out very well,” Spock answered Kirk’s question about encountering prejudices.

“You do realize this isn’t making any sense, don’t you?” Kirk pointed out in that logical tone that Spock almost hated.  Vulcan was supposed to be the voice of reason.  Humans were the irrational ones.  But Kirk had a way of making Spock question his own viewpoint that was most disconcerting.  And Jim could do it simply by employing a certain tone of voice.  The fact that his captain was usually right when he took that tone was in no way reassuring.  “If it isn’t something I or the crew have done, why would you want to leave?  Spock, please sit down.  Tell me what’s going on.”

Spock looked at the bright red upholstery on the empty chair, tempted.  How many hours had he spent sitting in that chair, playing chess or simply conversing with Kirk?  It was as familiar and comforting as the confused and worried man before him.  But he had to part company with both the man and his right to occupy that chair.  It was the only honorable course he could take in this situation. 

Spock pictured that huge red stone outside his mother’s garden and struggled to assimilate its traits as he answered, “Please believe that I regret the necessity, but my reasons for making this request are deeply private.  I ask you to honor that.”

“You know I’d never do anything to force or betray your confidence, but if you’re going to ask me to say goodbye to the best First Officer in Starfleet and my closest friend, I want an explanation beyond that your reasons are _deeply private_.  Spock, be fair.  If I came to you and announced that I was leaving a career I love for an unspecified reason, wouldn’t you do everything you could to ensure that I was making the decision for the proper reason?  You know you wouldn’t just let me walk away like that.  How can you expect me to let you?”

Kirk’s reasoning was faultlessly logical.  At any other time, Spock would have been impressed.  Kirk was right.  They both knew he would never allow Jim to just up and walk away from the Enterprise because of some mysterious problem.  Like Kirk was now doing, he would do everything in his power to discover the cause and fix the problem.

“Captain, we have both lived long enough to know that life is rarely fair.”  His words, though softly voiced, seemed to strike an unintentional target. 

“You’re right.  We’ve both suffered our share of senseless loss.  Losing you would be a blow to. . . my emotional stability and my capacity to effectively command.  If you intend to blast my world apart, then I want an explanation.  I think you owe me that much.”

_Blast his world apart._   Everything in Spock wanted to protest what had to be dramatic hyperbole, but Kirk’s pain-filled gaze was not lying.  Jim really was hurting that much. 

This was what came of emotional entanglement, the Vulcan in him coldly pointed out in what was quite possibly the most useless statement of the obvious Spock’s Vulcan half had ever made.

The only other time Spock had seen such a look on Jim’s face, he had also been the cause.  Kirk hadn’t worn so grave an expression since he’d pleaded with Spock for an explanation as to why his First Officer had commandeered the Enterprise and diverted her to Talos IV.  Spock had expected such a reaction then.  His seeming betrayal had been inconceivable and unpardonable.  In that instance, Spock had jeopardized not only his own position, but Kirk’s as well.  Yet, even when faced with the unforgivable, Jim had struggled to understand, struggled to forgive.  Now, here Kirk was, wearing the same tortured expression.  Knowing that he was the source of it was unbearable, just as the present situation was.  “Sir, I beg of you –’

“Don’t _sir_ me.  I’m talking to you as your friend, not as your captain.  Just tell me why, Spock.”  Kirk rose to his feet, seemingly needing to be on equal ground.  His hands were clenched in fists at his side, as if to prevent himself from reaching out to shake Spock.

“I regret that I cannot comply.  I must –”

“You must _what_?” Kirk uncharacteristically interrupted him.  “Abandon the career you worked decades to build?  Leave the best opportunity a scientist could ask for?  You’re a logical man.  Your reasons always make sense, so there has to be something here that I’m missing.”  Kirk’s gaze swept over him, homing in on his eyes with laser precision.  “What am I not seeing, Spock?”

“There is nothing to see.  I have informed you of my desire for a transfer.  You may approve or deny the request as you choose, but if you deny it, I will demand a formal explanation of the grounds for denial.”

Spock had expected his words to anger Kirk, but puzzlement overcame that expressive face. 

In one of those leaps of intuition that had saved the Enterprise countless times, Kirk pinpointed the source of the problem.  “The only other time you’ve been this . . . intractable was last month when you requested leave on Vulcan.”

Spock kept his face firmly schooled. 

Perhaps too firmly schooled, for Jim actually smiled; although the gesture was almost completely devoid of mirth.  “That’s it; isn’t it?  Whatever is going on; it has something to do with what happened on Vulcan last month.”

Spock moved his gaze from Kirk’s face, settling it once again on the unprepossessing empty chair.  Of the two beings in this room, Spock himself was the only actual telepath, but Jim’s intuitive leap was as lethally effective as any mind contact.  To Spock’s utter consternation, Kirk didn’t even sound as if there were any doubt as to the veracity of his guess.

“McCoy would have noted in his logs if you were experiencing . . . physical distress again.”

Spock appreciated the discretion.  “The good doctor has been most diligent in monitoring my physical condition.”

“So, you’re not –”

“No, I am not,” Spock firmly quickly cut off that line of questioning.

“Do you want to return to Vulcan to find another mate?” Kirk jumped to another perfectly logical conclusion.  From the tone of his voice, Jim made it sound like there would be scores of Vulcan females lining up for the honor, while the bitter truth was that the single candidate it had taken his father seven years to find had chosen to disgrace her family rather than mate with the half-blood freak to whom their parents’ agreement had bound her.  That Kirk thought so highly of him, even after seeing the near-contempt with which the other Vulcans treated him, was inexplicably comforting.  “If that’s the case, I’d be happy to approve an extended leave of absence.”

“I have no wish to return to . . .” Spock stopped himself from voicing the words _my_ _home-world._ If he’d learned anything from last month’s visit, it was that he had never belonged there and never would.  He continued instead with, “Vulcan.”

The word sounded dead to even his own ears.  If he had hoped to avoid arousing Kirk’s curiosity, he had failed miserably.  He could feel Jim’s gaze scouring him, collecting data as ruthlessly as the Enterprise’s sensors.

“You want to leave the Enterprise because of what happened on Vulcan last month, but you have no desire to return to Vulcan?” Kirk seemed to be checking his facts.

“Correct.  For the record, I do not _want_ to leave the Enterprise.  I am compelled to do so.”  That was two sentences too many.  Spock realized his mistake as soon as the words were out. 

“Compelled by what?” Kirk demanded.  Were a crewman the cause of Spock’s transfer request, the captain’s obvious, tight-held anger would have promised that unfortunate individual would be assigned to the Starfleet version of a Klingon internment camp.

Seeing no other way, Spock answered, “By integrity, friendship, logic.  Any of them will do as a motivation.” 

Spock wasn’t expecting the warm hand that settled on his arm.  He could actually hear the stiff gold braid on their uniform sleeves rustle against each other.

“Sit down, Spock.  Please?”  That gentle tone was inescapable and impossible to refuse.

Despite his better sense, Spock allowed himself to be guided to the empty chair.

“When’s the last time you slept?” Kirk asked, moving to the cabinet across from his desk where he stored his liquid refreshments.  Jim’s back was to him.  All Spock could hear was the tinkling of glasses being moved.  He hadn’t a clue as to what Kirk was thinking, feeling.

“Four days ago.  But, as you know, Vulcans –”

“Don’t need sleep the way Humans do.” Kirk sounded almost amused as he returned to where Spock was sitting and placed a cool glass in Spock’s hand.

“You know I don’t partake of . . . “

“It’s not liquor,” Kirk said, returning to his chair behind the desk with an identical glass in hand.

Mostly to avoid continuing the previous line of discussion, Spock took a sip of the beverage.  “Catherian apple cider?”

The juice was hard to obtain this far out on the Rim and exorbitantly expensive.  The Enterprise hadn’t been anywhere near the Catherian star system for over five years, so Jim must have purchased this at one of their last shore leave stopovers. 

“You seemed to enjoy it the last time we dined with Commodore Hernandez,” Kirk answered.

“Thank you.  Yes, I do like it,” Spock said, more than a little thrown.  Kirk always had something non-alcoholic on hand for Spock to drink when he visited the captain’s quarters, but this was an amazing gesture.  Extraordinarily thoughtful, just like the man before him, Spock recognized.

“I don’t want to invade your privacy or force your confidence, but . . . you have to explain what’s going on, Spock.  I can’t fix the problem if I don’t know what it is.”

All Spock’s hopes of avoiding explanation crumbled under Jim’s open gaze.  Perhaps Kirk did have the right to know.  He was, after all, directly involved in the situation.  So, rather than dissembling further, Spock warned, “Some things can’t be fixed, no matter how much we may wish to do so.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

“Can I state up front that I do not wish to damage our . . . friendship?”  As ever, Spock hesitated over that last word.  A lifetime of training to excise all emotion made it nearly impossible to voice that description of his connection to Kirk without experiencing a twinge of failure.  And, yet, beyond all logic, he knew that the relationship he had forged with this remarkable individual was, without question, his greatest achievement.

“What?  Of course, nothing you say would damage our friendship.  You can state anything you want with impunity.  If I’ve done something to inadvertently make you uncomfortable on the Enterprise . . . please, just tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s nothing you’ve done.  If there is fault to be apportioned, it is all my own.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Kirk protested.  “But, go on.”

There it was again.  That flash of irresistible fondness that seemed to transform Kirk’s entire being.  Spock had observed that this reaction seemed particular to himself.  While Jim was close to his Human friends, he never looked at them quite this way.  Spock didn’t know what he had done to inspire it.  There were many other crew members Spock had served with for years, Humans who didn’t regard him as a walking computer and treated him amiably, but only Jim had ever looked at him like this.

“It is difficult to explain, but something unprecedented occurred when we were down on Vulcan last month,” Spock began, sorting facts, attempting to find a non-threatening way to reveal the truth. 

“You explained that alien involvement in Vulcan marriage rituals was rare, but you didn’t say it was unprecedented,” Kirk commented in a calming tone.  Clearly, his friend could see how disturbed Spock was by all this.  For all he knew, Kirk might even actually feel how unbalanced he was.  If what Spock suspected were true, it was entirely possible that Kirk was unconsciously reading his thoughts and feelings that easily and probably had been doing so for some time.

“Alien involvement is extremely rare, but that isn’t to what I make reference.  I refer to an event that took place after you and Doctor McCoy returned to the Enterprise.”

“After you thought you’d killed me?”

Spock nodded and forced himself to share yet more of Vulcan’s deepest secrets with his friend.  There was no way Kirk could comprehend the severity of the situation without being completely informed.  “You must understand something about Vulcan physiology.  Once a male experiencing pon farr falls deep into the plak tow, nothing other than sexual release will stop the blood fever.  It is biologically impossible for plak tow to just . . . turn itself off.  To be released from its grip, I would have had to mate with T’Pring.  Historically, situations such as the one she orchestrated end with the afflicted male’s death in battle.  The few instances where the afflicted male survived combat, he would take the woman sexually and often murder her afterwards in payment for her rejection.  It is a violent and bloody heritage my father gave me.  Fully as savage as that of Humans.”

“But you didn’t . . . take or murder T’Pring.”  It wasn’t even a question. 

“No.  I did not.  I freed her from her vows and returned to the Enterprise.  But the fact is, I should have died after releasing her.  Instead, the fire vanished from my blood the instant I realized I’d murdered you and I returned to the ship unscathed.”

“I don’t know about Vulcan, but in my book, not dying is a good thing, Mr. Spock.  I’m not seeing any unfixable problems here.  In fact, I’m not seeing any problems at all.”

“One must understand one’s nature to be at peace.  Something happened to me that should be impossible by Vulcan standards.  For the past month, I have been attempting to understand what occurred.”

“And your questioning somehow led you to the conclusion that you must leave the Enterprise?”

Spock gave reluctant nod.

“But you think you know what happened?” Kirk asked.

“My father’s people would offer the events as proof that I am not a true Vulcan.  That my blood is tainted and I did not burn as a real Vulcan would.  But, Captain, I know what I experienced.  I was in full, mindless plak tow, ready to kill in order to mate.”

“I don’t think anyone could really argue against your being in plak tow, Spock.  Certainly, not me.  I was there.  I saw; I _felt_ how violent your reaction was.”

“Exactly.  And yet, that mindless fury was snuffed out like a candle the moment I realized I had killed you.”

“Wouldn’t it have affected a full-blooded Vulcan the same way?  We’re the closest of friends. You can’t just murder your best friend and continue as if nothing happened.” Kirk said _best friend_ so easily, with a touch of pride, even.  “Surely, even a Vulcan in plak tow would have regrets.”

“He would,” Spock agreed, “but not until after he’d mated.  After considerable deliberation, I have developed two possible hypotheses to explain what I experienced – or, rather, failed to experience.”

“Okay, let’s hear them.”

“The first possibility is that the pon farr I experienced was not induced by my own hormones and, therefore, when the source of inducement cut off, so did the plak tow.”

“What?” Kirk was understandably bewildered.

“T’Pring and my minds were linked together when we were children.  She never wanted the union.  I didn’t realize that until after that childhood ritual all but chained our beings together and, by then, it was too late to do anything about it.  I hoped over time that she would grow to enjoy my company, but she avoided me our entire lives.  And, yet, on the deepest of levels our minds were bound together.  Can you imagine how . . . unpleasant such an unwanted connection must have been for her?”

“It doesn’t sound like it was exactly pleasant for you either, Spock,” Kirk softly pointed out.

“No, it was . . . .  You must understand.  Vulcans work very hard to expunge emotion from their minds and hearts.  Because of my Human blood, I must work harder than most.  Due to the mental link, T’Pring was always uncomfortably aware of my struggles.  Just as I was aware of her contempt, a contempt that approached hatred.  We avoided each other’s company as much as possible.  After I left Vulcan, the link was less noticeable.  We were no longer as intensely aware of each other’s thought processes.  But that link was still there.”

“The link was how she knew you were returning to Vulcan before the ship initiated contact?”

“Yes,” Spock answered.  “She no doubt sensed my condition and was responding to it, as would happen in a proper Vulcan union.  The fact that she initiated contact with the ship and made the correct, ritual responses to my arrival encouraged me to believe that perhaps time had changed her opinion of me.”

“Are you saying she could feel what was happening to you from parsecs away?” Kirk questioned, something akin to awe in his voice.

“Yes.”

“That’s . . . pretty amazing, Spock.”

“The joining of minds when both participants are willing and open to the experience, it is said that there is no greater delight than that mental union.  I cannot attest to the veracity of that claim from personal experience,” Spock added, not wanting to misrepresent anything to Jim.  All he’d ever known of it was how completely T’Pring despised him.  Recognizing that they had strayed far off track, Spock softly interjected, “But we digress.”

“Right,” Kirk agreed, his impressive mind instantly summarizing their previous topic.  “You were sharing your thoughts on how it was possible that your . . . experience was not initiated by your own hormones.  Which, honestly, doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.  Bones told me your physiological readings had been off for weeks.”

“They had.  You must remember, I had never experienced pon farr before.  An older Vulcan might have recognized what was happening instantly and possibly noticed if something were unusual in his symptoms, but . . . .”

“But?” Jim encouraged.

“I have never experienced pon farr before.  I was unable to determine if my response was normal.”

“So what makes you think that it wasn’t a normal reaction?” Kirk asked.

“From what I have read of the process, long before his body shows any sign of his imminent condition, the afflicted male will experience increasingly erotic dreams featuring his mate, weeks, even months before any physical symptoms manifest.  That is how offword Vulcans know when it is time to make their way home.”

“And?”

“I never experienced those dreams.  At least, none that featured T’Pring.  The first indication I had was when my hormone levels accelerated so rapidly.  At the time, I believed that it was my mixed heritage that took me out of the norm, but . . . I may have misinterpreted what triggered the reaction.”

“What is there to misinterpret?” Kirk asked.

“It is possible that when T’Pring recognized her attraction to Stonn –”

“That was the Vulcan who interrupted the ceremony and wanted to fight you for her?” Kirk asked for clarification.

“Yes.  That was Stonn.  It is possible that T’Pring and Stonn might have done more than simply discuss marriage.”

“You mean she was unfaithful to you?” Kirk’s voice was gentle, completely nonjudgmental as he voiced his question.

Spock nodded.  “Possibly.  If she were, such activity would be sufficient to propel my system into pon farr.”

“Even from such a distance?”

“Yes.  Infidelity is all but unheard of among . . .”  Spock bit back the _my people_ he’d been about to voice, substituting with, “. . . Vulcans.  My physiology would have reacted to her excitement, regardless of the object of her attentions.”

“And the fact that T’Pring might have been the catalyst of your condition, rather than your own body,” Spock appreciated the care and discretion Kirk displayed while voicing his question, as he obviously tried to tie the information Spock had offered back to their original topic, “was enough for the blood fever to switch off like that?  Did the combat break your mental link to T’Pring?”

“That was to be expected.  For a female to challenge the marriage . . . the physiological and mental responses are very primal . . . on both sides.  Only in that way can the childhood link be broken.  I felt it shatter when she stopped me from ringing the ritual gong.  But while her refusal was enough to break the bond, it should not have affected the plak tow.  Yet, I felt that vanish once I believed you dead.  That should not have happened.”

“You obviously have some ideas as to why it did,” Kirk said.

“If my body was not ready to experience pon farr, it is possible the blood fever might have receded when the mental link with T’Pring broke and I was no longer exposed to her attraction towards Stonn.  If that is all that occurred, the situation might not be as dire as I believe.”

“I don’t recall ever hearing you use the word _dire_ before, Mr. Spock,” Kirk commented softly. 

“It is a rather emotive adjective,” Spock agreed.

“But suitable?”

Spock nodded.

“All right,” Kirk seemed to brace himself again.  If he hadn’t known any better, Spock would have classified the intensity that tightened Kirk’s features as fear.  “Just tell me.”

Spock tried to keep his voice level.  These were simple facts he was offering.  No different than when Kirk asked for an analysis of a planet’s atmosphere.  “The second hypothesis I can construct to explain why the blood fever didn’t kill me is that my mind was no longer locked completely to T’Pring’s.  I think that during the many years I was away from Vulcan, my mind formed an unconscious link with another being whose mind didn’t shudder with revulsion when it touched my own.  The second link could have diminished the hold the original link with T’Pring had over my system.  T’Pring’s activities with Stonn might have been sufficient to incite my system to react physically, but the new link with the more congenial mind could have confused the focus.”

“Meaning?”  Kirk appeared relatively at ease, not the least bit alarmed by what Spock deemed a fairly explosive confession.  Obviously, Jim had not made the connection.  And why would he, when it had taken Spock himself nearly a month to work out what must have happened?

“T’Pring might not have been the goal of battle.  I might not have been fighting to win her back, but for something . . . _someone_ else.” 

“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing, Spock.  Who in their right mind would have wanted to continue to be tied to that cold-hearted bitch?” Kirk asked, immediately following up with, “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have spoken so candidly.  But I don’t see how not being tied to that woman is anything but a cause for celebration.”

“It might well have been, if the dissolution of my connection to T’Pring simply meant that I was unattached, bound to no one.  However, events seem to indicate otherwise.”

“You’re referring to the second link you mentioned?” Kirk asked, openly curious, still no trace of concern.

Abruptly self-conscious, Spock quickly added, “Please understand.  If there is a second link, it is not of my choosing.  I cannot even be certain it exists, but it is the only explanation I can find for the abrupt cessation of plak tow which I experienced.”

“What do you mean that you’re not even certain the link exists?  If your mind were joined to someone strongly enough to cancel out that blood fever, it must be a considerable connection.  How could you not know?”

It was a valid question.  If Jim had been able to untangle the gist of Spock’s explanation enough to draw the logical conclusion from the facts, it wouldn’t have been an inquiry, but an accusation. 

“During that time on Vulcan, I was incapable of clear thought.  My mind and heart were on fire.  My body was in the traditional site for ritual marriage.  Nothing in my previous experience would have led me to suspect that anyone other than T’Pring could have been the source of those all-consuming flames.  If my mind were locked to anyone other than her, I was too insane to understand or even recognize it.”

Kirk was immediately contrite.  “Of course, you weren’t in your right mind.  But, if you don’t know who the other link is –”

“I have since deduced that person’s identity,” Spock stiffly admitted, practically dreading what must follow.

“Great.  Let’s have it.”

To Spock’s utter consternation, Jim still seemed completely oblivious.  Drawing a deep breath, he carefully offered, “I believe the plak tow cut off when the person with whom that unintentional second link existed was killed in battle.”

“Killed in battle . . . .” Jim echoed before abrupt understanding filled his features.  “You mean _me_?” 

Kirk’s shock was a palpable presence.

Spock could almost swear that time itself froze for an undeterminable period.  He could almost hear the thoughts racing wildly through Kirk’s mind.  If his life had depended upon it, Spock couldn’t have predicted with any certainty how Jim would respond to this development.  Logic dictated that any Human male who found himself unexpectedly bound to a male alien would react adversely.  How could he not?  Spock himself had been all but devastated when he realized what this unplanned development would cost him and he’d had a month to pick at the problem.

Kirk started in his seat, tension straightening his spine.  He seemed to become aware of the drink he held in his hand and downed it in a single gulp.  The expression with which Jim regarded the empty glass afterwards seemed to indicate he had forgotten the contents weren’t alcoholic.

Spock found himself speaking rapidly, trying to explain, hoping against logic that he could forestall the imminent disaster that had to be brewing.  “I did not realize this had happened.  In the last two and a half years, circumstances have forced our minds to touch four times in crisis situations.  Had I known this were even a possibility, I would never have engaged in such risky activity.  As matters stand, I can only offer my sincerest apologies.”

It took every bit of courage Spock could muster to meet his captain’s eyes.  To his complete bewilderment, it was not the expected, completely understandable fury he encountered in those green-speckled depths.  Rather than being angry, Kirk still seemed only confused.

Possibly still in shock, Spock surmised as Kirk offered a stunned sounding, “No, of course, you would never have intentionally . . . .”  The words faded, as if Kirk were still trying to process what this meant.  To them.  To the ship.  This development impacted more than simply the two of them.

“You do understand now why a transfer is necessary.  I regret –”

“No,” Kirk interrupted his completely inadequate attempt at apology.  “You’re not going anywhere.”

That was Jim’s command voice, a force that was stronger than that Vulcan stone Spock had always admired.  Now it was Spock’s turn to attempt to comprehend concepts utterly alien to his nature.  Of all the possible scenarios that had played through Spock’s mind these last weeks as he attempted to prepare himself for this impossible interview, this variation had never presented itself.

“I must leave.  Continued contact will only strengthen the link.”

“You said you weren’t a hundred percent certain that the link even existed,” Kirk reminded.  “I haven’t experienced anything strange.  You said that T’Pring and you were aware of each other’s thoughts.  I’ve never heard your thoughts, outside of when we were actually touching minds.”

“You are not a telepath.  It is highly unlikely that you would be able to read my thoughts.  But there have been other indications that you are . . . undergoing a link’s effects.”

“What sort of indications?” Kirk asked, still not sounding particularly worried or horrified by the concept.

“You are consistently able to read my internal reactions that no one else is aware of.”

“Spock, I’ve known you for over six years.  We’re close, even by Human standards.  It’s only natural that we’d be able to tell what’s going on with each other better than any outsider would.  And . . . I’ve always been good at reading people.  All this means is that we’re friends.  It’s not proof of any link.”

“Then what interrupted the normal pon farr process?”  Even to his own ears, the words sounded almost peevish.

“It could be your unique physiology.  We don’t know.”

“No, we do not,” Spock agreed, forcing himself to continue with, “but we cannot risk the consequences that a link does, in fact, exist.”

“What type of consequences are we talking about here?” Kirk asked, his tone somehow gentle, of all things.  The last thing Spock had anticipated was compassion.

“If such a link exists between us, the next time I entered pon farr, I would be drawn to you,” Spock tried to keep all emotion out of his voice.  But . . . Jim wasn’t a child.  He knew where mating drives led.

“And how would such a link affect me?”

“You mean beyond being the object of a male alien’s unwanted and dangerous . . . attentions?” Spock did not quite gape at Kirk, but it was a near thing.

“What do you mean by _dangerous_?” Kirk questioned as if he hadn’t nearly lost his life as a byproduct of his First Officer’s mindless heat a month ago.

“You saw what happened to me.  Need I revisit those events?” Spock didn’t quite plead.

“I saw what happened to you when you were viciously rejected at a time when you were completely vulnerable to emotion.  Is violence a normal part of Vulcan mating practices?  It seemed that that plak tow part was a result of T’Pring’s refusal to marry you.  Is that right?”

Spock gave a guarded nod.  “Plak tow ensues only when the . . . union is denied.”

“So, under normal circumstances, there isn’t any violence?”

“Correct.”

“Then the situation isn’t dangerous,” Kirk decided.  “Simply . . . unexpected.”

“How could this not be perilous?  If this link exists and I do not leave, it will only deepen.  If I stay, the next time pon farr occurs, I will be unable to help myself.  I will be drawn to you and you will find yourself tied to me the way T’Pring was.”

“And if you leave now, that won’t happen?  I mean, you were drawn back to T’Pring, despite the fact that neither one of you really wanted to have anything to do with the other.”

Spock opened his mouth to reply, his certainty abruptly evaporating.  “I do not know.”

“You don’t know,” Kirk repeated.  “We don’t even know if this link actually exists.  Leaving now . . .”

“Is the only way to avoid destroying your life,” Spock firmly interrupted, reminding himself of the cold facts.  “This is my problem, Captain.  You –”

“I am part of this problem.  There’s nothing that proves that if you leave the ship, I won’t still be linked to you, that I won’t suffer through whatever befalls you.  Vulcans are linked for life, aren’t they?”

Spock gave a reluctant nod.  That much was common knowledge offworld.

“I’ve also heard it said that Vulcans rarely survive their mate’s passing.  Is that also true?”

Spock swallowed, the action dry and painful.  “In cases where the partners have an extremely deep connection, one rarely outlives the other.  My father, however, survived his previous wife’s death completely unscathed.  It is all dependent upon the degree of attachment.”

“That degree of attachment . . . it has to be determined by emotion, doesn’t it?” Kirk questioned.

“What?”

“Look, I know some people believe that Vulcans are devoid of feelings, and I know that Vulcans like to promote that mystique as well, but we both know that’s not true,” Kirk said.  “You didn’t get your emotions simply from your mother.  You inherited some from your father as well.”

“What is your point?” Spock tried to control his tone.  He knew his own weaknesses were to blame for this undesirable situation.  Was Kirk holding him accountable as well?  His captain would be well within his rights to do so

“My point is that if some partners walk away fine after their mate’s passing and others are devastated by it to the point of death, it has to be the level of emotional commitment they have to each other that varies.  Their minds would be linked the same way, so the only difference would be how much they . . . cared about each other.  Right?”

“An argument could be made to support that premise,” Spock agreed.  “I don’t believe there has ever been any type of scientific study to explain the phenomenon.  Emotional attachment isn’t a subject most Vulcans are comfortable examining.”

“No, I don’t suppose they would be.”

Ridiculously comforted by Kirk’s inexplicably rational response to what Spock could only view as utter disaster, Spock asked, “What has this tangent to do with our previous subject?”

“It has everything to do with it.  If this link really exists, it happened because our minds are . . . congenial.  Was that the word you used earlier?”

“Yes,” Spock affirmed.

“We weren’t joined by any ritual.  This happened without conscious guidance.”  The last bit sounded like a question.

“Yes, it did.”

“That means if the link exists, it formed because we already have a deep connection.”

All Spock could manage was a miserable nod.

“Historically, how many Vulcans manage to break unintentional links?”

Kirk’s calm question touched off a cold dread deep within.  Spock gulped.  It was a Human reaction, but often when hit with such intense emotion, he couldn’t avoid responding in such a shameful manner.  Gathering his controls together, Spock reluctantly offered, “I have never heard of a single unintentional link occurring.  Vulcans do not normally initiate telepathic contact with anyone other than their mate.”

“So, this situation is completely unprecedented.”

“To the best of my knowledge.  If it has happened before, there was no official record of it, and I have searched for previous occurrences and a remedy.”

“Of course, you have.”  Kirk still appeared completely unalarmed.

“Then you do understand why it is necessary that I leave immediately.”  His logical side relaxed at his captain’s calm acceptance.

“No, I don’t.”

“Captain . . . _Jim,_ I have explained in detail . . .”

“Spock, I’m going to restate the facts as you presented them to me.  I want you to confirm or deny the validity of the data.  All right?” Kirk questioned.

Spock gave another reluctant nod.

“Basically, you believe that a link exists between us because your cycle cut off in an unnatural manner.”

“Yes.”

“There is no historical precedence for the cessation of your cycle?”

“No.”

“Nor is there any empirical proof that the link you hypothesize exists between us?”

“No, there is not.”

“Is there any scientific evidence at all to support the existence of this purported link?”

“No empirical evidence, only subjective circumstantial data,” Spock answered, his gaze fixed on his captain’s face.

“If I were a junior science officer presenting this hypothesis to you, what would your determination be on its validity?”

“As a scientist, I would dismiss the issue until hard evidence surfaced.  But since this proposal presents the possibility of harming this ship’s captain, I would do everything in my power to prevent its effects from manifesting.” 

“I know you would,” Kirk said.  “That’s exactly what you’ve been doing tonight and I appreciate your concern.”

“ _Concern_?  Do you not realize the severity of this situation?  We can’t ignore the possibility that I may be correct.  If I am right . . . .”

“ _If_ you’re right, what?  A link exists that neither of us can feel?  A link that has done nothing to interfere with our performance?” Kirk questioned in that same frustratingly rational tone.

If Spock were to acknowledge the degree of his irritation, the Human expression about being frustrated enough to chew rodinium would fit perfectly.  “When my cycle restarts, such a link will do much more than interfere with our performance.”

“And that might not happen for another seven years.  By then, you could have met someone you want to share that kind of mental link with,” Kirk pointed out.

“Or it could happen next week.  I am not a full-blooded Vulcan.  There is no predicting when my cycle could restart.”

This warning seemed as ineffectual as all his others.  Kirk merely assured him, “Then we’ll deal with it when it happens.”

“ _Sir_ . . . Jim, please . . ?”

“Please – what?  Let you throw away everything you’ve worked for because there’s a possibility that something might happen at some unspecified date in the future?  I know you, Spock.  If you leave the Enterprise under these circumstances, you’ll avoid all future attachments to prevent something like this from happening again.  You’ll never relax your guards enough to find a suitable partner.  Leaving the Enterprise under these circumstances is as good as a death sentence.”

“If this link does exist and I stay, it is you who will receive a life sentence worse than death.  You will be bound to someone not of your choosing, a prisoner to alien drives.  As your friend, I cannot allow that to happen.”

“Spock, we’re talking about _you_ , not some slobbering monster or alien flesh peddler.”  Kirk was using that damnably reasonable tone again. 

“I will not see you shackled to –”

 “You keep using words like _tied_ and _bound_ , making it sound like I have no choice in any of this,” Kirk said.

“You didn’t.  You didn’t ask for any of this.”

“Neither did you.  You were blindsided by this as much as I was.”

How that observation could be anything but a furious accusation, Spock didn’t understand.  He was the telepath.  He should have known what could happen.  This entire conversation made no sense to him.  Everything he’d seen of Human behavior had led him to expect outrage.  This calm reaction was utterly beyond his ken.  Finding his voice, Spock reluctantly answered, “That fact does not absolve me of responsibility.  I . . .”

“You’ve done nothing wrong.  You’ve been nothing but honorable.  The same as you always are,” Kirk insisted.  “Leaving isn’t the answer. Spock.”

“It is the only option I can see that guarantees your freedom.”

“My freedom from what?  You say this link already exists.  How am I not free?  If it is there, I’m not aware of it.”

“You will be aware of nothing other than it when my cycle returns.”  Spock intended the words as a warning.  

Kirk actually shrugged them off as if the looming threat were meaningless.  “We’ll deal with it then.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Kirk demanded.  The first traces of something like true anger simmering in his darkened gaze.

“A say in _what_?  You can’t _want_ to be bound to . . .””  Spock had never understood the Human term of ‘being beside one’s self,’ but at this moment, he understood it viscerally, on a cellular level.

“You’ve just spent the last half hour telling me that somehow, without either of us intending it, this incredible bridge has formed between our minds –”

“I didn’t describe it as incredible,” Spock pointed out, the scientist in him demanding accuracy even in such a dangerous discussion.

“No, that’s my take on it,” Kirk answered.

For one of the first instances in his adult life, Spock was left speechless.

Kirk continued with a softly voiced, “If this link is there, it happened solely because we are so compatible.  Right?”

Spock gave a slow nod, almost tempted to try to read what Jim was thinking, because he was completely bewildered by this reaction.  From what he knew of Human nature, this response made no sense.  “My weakness has condemned us both to –”

“Stop right there,” Kirk ordered.  “This isn’t about weakness.  Or if it is, it’s a mutual weakness.”

“What does that mean?” Spock asked.  _Mutual weakness?_

“Don’t you get it?  This didn’t happen simply because you permitted yourself a friend.  You are closer to me than anyone ever has been or will be again.  I’ve come to rely on you, and not just as my First Officer.  I don’t want to lose your wisdom or your friendship simply because something might occur.”

Touched by Jim’s admission in spite of himself, Spock was forced to remind him, “There is no _might_ about it.  Sooner or later, I will experience pon farr and if such a link exists between us –”

“We’ll deal with it when it happens,” Jim gently repeated the line he’d been using since Spock had explained the situation to him.  “It will be all right, Spock.  I promise you that.”

Finally apprehending what Kirk was offering here, Spock swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat.  It had never occurred to him that Jim would be anything but horrified by this development.  “I am unwilling to force you into an encounter repugnant to your nature.”

“What do you mean repugnant?” Jim actually chuckled.  His attitude turning playful, of all things, Kirk continued.  “Mister Spock, you’ve know me more than six years.  You can’t have failed to have noticed that I enjoy . . . reproductive activities.”

Spock appreciated the discretion.  Nevertheless, he was fairly certain that his own cheeks must have turned to green flame in response to Kirk’s gentle teasing.  Unable to keep his muscles relaxed during such a discussion, Spock stiffly pointed out, “Not with males.”

“What?”  

“Not once in our acquaintance have I seen any indication that you are attracted to your own gender.”

“How can you say that?”  Kirk’s astonishment was sincere.  “You’ve been in my mind.  You have to have seen . . . .”

This time there was no denying the heat of embarrassment that flashed through him.  Totally shocked by what Kirk was telling him, Spock gave a numb shake of his head.  Beneath his astonishment, he was consumed with curiosity, but restricted his response to the facts.  “No.  I touched your thoughts for very specific purposes, when there was no other option.  You have a remarkably disciplined and orderly mind.  You were always focused on the problem at hand.  I did not rummage through your innermost thoughts.  I would not violate your privacy that way.”

“No, I know you wouldn’t.  I didn’t mean to imply that you would.  I just thought . . . that you’d know everything when our minds touched.”

“And you still permitted it?” The words escaped before Spock could gather any type of control over them; he was that astounded by Kirk’s admission.

Kirk shrugged. “It’s not like either of us had much choice at the time.”  A not uncomfortable silence settled between them while they both seemed to gather their thoughts before Kirk broke it.  “I know some species have very strong cultural aversions to . . . individuals mating with members of their gender.  Does Vulcan have any such strictures?”

That was his captain’s diplomat voice, completely unprejudiced as he sought understanding.

“No.  Vulcans view procreation as the only reason for mating, but they would not condemn someone who made different choices.  My father’s people would merely define such an action as illogical and treat it with the distaste with which they regard all emotion.”

“What about you, personally?  Before, you labelled the action as _repugnant_.  Was that your view on the subject?  It’s all right if it is,” Kirk quickly added.

Still shocked beyond any ability to steer the conversation to less dangerous grounds, Spock answered, “I have no personal prejudices regarding the subject.  It was the idea of your being forced into a situation not of your choosing that was repugnant to me.”

Kirk actually smiled at his response, as if charmed by his unemotional wording when referencing such a potentially volatile topic.  “That’s good.”

“Good?  What about this situation could be termed _good_?”  Once again, Spock’s words slipped out without filtering.

“Well, personally, I think that the fact that neither of us is disgusted by the subject makes it a lot easier to deal with, especially if you’re proven right and, seriously, when _aren’t_ you right?”

“That . . . you know I’m not infallible.  If I were, this situation would never have emerged.”

“None of this is your fault.  Can we just try to move on to solutions?”

“That is . . . logical,” Spock hesitantly agreed.  

“So, we’ve established that neither of us has a prejudice against the concept.  Now all we need to do is determine a plan of action.”

“A plan of action?” Spock blankly repeated.  His mind seemed to freeze like an overloaded computer circuit as he tried to process what Kirk must mean.

Spock couldn’t decide if he were relieved of disappointed when Jim seemed to change the subject.  “If this link exists, how much of a difference will it make in our day to day life?”

“I . . . Captain, you cannot be seriously contemplating –”

“Just answer the question.”

Doing his best to sound as if he were relating data on some natural phenomenon they encountered in the line of duty, Spock said, “You are not a telepath, so it is unlikely that you would be troubled by my thoughts slipping over into your mind.  There would be nothing intrusive.  You might experience . . . increased sensitivity when I am struggling with my Human side, but . . . you are already uncomfortably perceptive when it comes to reading things I’d rather keep hidden.”

Kirk’s expression seemed to indicate that nothing Spock said surprised him, his response confirming that, “What you’re saying is there would be no difference.”

“Not at present.”

“And in the future?”

“If we were to . . . follow through with this . . .” Spock bit back the word _insanity_ , continuing with the less emotional, “. . . course of action when my cycle next occurs, there will be no possibility of my finding another afterwards.  I will be drawn to you for the rest of my life.”

To Spock’s intense relief, Jim actually seemed to consider that warning.  But the course Kirk’s next question took told Spock that he had misunderstood the source of Kirk’s hesitation.  “Could you live with that?  Being bound to an irrational Human?”

If it were physically possible for one’s blood to freeze in one’s veins, Spock’s would be ice at that moment.

“Spock?” Kirk prompted.

“You’re hardly irrational,” Spock stalled, stunned to the very center of his being. 

“Answer the question.  Before, you told me that you could feel T’Pring’s emotions.  You avoid emotional entanglements at all costs.  Would it unbalance you, having to deal with my feelings all the time?”

Put on the spot, Spock realized that receiving an adverse reaction from Kirk might have been easier.  His mind sorted through a dozen answers that would spare him embarrassment.  All of the potential replies had elements of truth to them, but only one was completely honest.  He could hardly repay the consideration Jim had shown him tonight with convenient half-truths, no matter how tempting.  “This link – if it truly exists – would not have formed if our minds and personalities were not compatible.  Something in you has always . . . called out to me.”

Normally, Spock would have died before voicing such a sentiment, but the warmth in Jim’s eyes and the pink color that suffused Kirk’s pleasantly tinted cheeks made him glad he’d spoken.  Clearly, Jim was pleased by his words.

“I’ve always felt the same about you,” Kirk said.  “When I first read your personnel folder before taking command, I was nervous that we wouldn’t get along.  But the minute I met you, everything just clicked into place.  We make a good team, Mr. Spock.  Stop worrying.  We’re going to be fine.”

“I truly do not comprehend why you would want to subject yourself to what must be a distasteful alien convention.”

“We’re not discussing vivisection here.  We’re talking about a few nights of pleasure, if and when your cycle reawakens.”

“You saw the . . . beast I will become.  How could you even consider subjecting yourself to. . ?”

“Nothing like that is going to happen between us,” Kirk insisted.

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because I know you.”

“Not in that respect, you don’t.”

Jim’s mouth parted as is to speak, but then he closed it.  Kirk seemed to appraise him for a very long moment before tentatively asking, “Have you ever taken anyone to your bed?”

Spock was absurdly grateful for the use of the unemotional euphemism.  Experience had taught him how blunt Humans could be.  Always in the past, he had refused to answer such prurient inquiries, but Jim wasn’t asking out of idle curiosity.  Spock offered a soft, “No,” in response.

“So, the only experience you have with . . . these drives is last month when your hormones ran wild?”

“Yes.”

“That was an extreme situation catalyzed by a biological imperative, Spock.  It isn’t like that under normal circumstances.”

“That was the Vulcan norm,” Spock corrected.

“You don’t know that,” Kirk challenged.  “If that was your only experience with . . . reproductive activities, you have no way of knowing what it’s like without the pon farr.”

“Vulcans do not mate outside of pon farr.”

“You don’t know that, either.  Your mind was locked to someone who disliked you.  You never had a chance to sample . . . the type of exploration all beings experience when they come of age.”

“Vulcan adolescents do not engage in lascivious behavior.”  In Starfleet Academy, he had seen the shocking activates Human youth got up to.

“Not publicly, they don’t,” Kirk agreed.  “But what about privately?  Your people are inherently curious.  It’s what makes Vulcans such formidable scientists.”

“Even so . . .”

“I’ve met full-blooded Vulcans, Spock.  They’re not robots.  They are flesh and blood beings who adhere to extremely strict personal disciplines – the same as you.  But I’m telling you that there is no way they could wait around two or three decades to explore their sexuality when their minds are linked.  How could they?  You told me yourself that T’Pring’s activities were able to affect you hundreds of parsecs away.  What would happen with two youngsters who were friends with linked minds living in close proximity?  I can’t believe they wouldn’t experiment.”

“If what you say is true, it still has no bearing on me.  I had no such experiences.  You can’t know that I won’t lose control –”

“Can’t I?  Last month when you were in the grip of plak tow, you pleaded with T’Pau to not involve me in the ceremony.  Your reluctance to harm another carried over, even though you were in a situation where any other Vulcan would have reacted mindlessly.  The only reason you lost control on the planet was because _T’Pring_ ,” her name sounded almost like an expletive, “. . . chose a brutal course of action at a time when your hormones were out of control.”

“I will be in a similar state when my cycle returns,” Spock warned.

“No, you won’t.  There will be no plak tow.  You are never going through that again, ever.” It sounded like a solemn vow, as if this were something Jim were promising himself as much as Spock.

Unaccountably moved and having no idea how to master such emotions while involved in this type of conversation, Spock began, “Pon farr –”

“Doesn’t scare me.  Your hormones had been plaguing you for weeks before we reached Vulcan.  There was no problem between us before we beamed down to planet.”

_Pon Farr didn’t scare him_?  Kirk meant those words.  Memory proved them true, for Spock could plainly recall how unphazed Jim had been by emotional outbursts that would have scandalized any Vulcan.  Unaccountably thrown by that realization, Spock could only stare at his captain as he attempted to regain his equilibrium.  Finally gathering himself together, Spock made a last argument for sanity.  “You speak of pleasure.  Regardless of whether Vulcans engage in relations outside of the male’s cycle, there is no pleasure in pon farr, only madness and the overwhelming imperative to mate.”

“How do you know that?”

“What?” Spock didn’t quite gape at his friend, but it was a near thing.

“You told me a few minutes ago that you’d never experienced pon farr before.  How do you know there’s no joy in it?”

“All the literature on the subject –”

“Literature written by people who view being susceptible to any type of emotion as a moral failing?” Kirk challenged.

“What?”

“I submit the argument that a Vulcan author would not be unbiased on this topic.  They despise being out of control.  How could they view the situation as anything other than a nightmare?  Have you ever spoken to your mother about it?”  If Kirk were attempting to find a question guaranteed to utterly mortify him, he couldn’t have chosen better.

“Speak to my _mother_ about pon farr?”

Kirk’s chuckle was filled with delight.  “I’ll take that as a _no_.  Spock, I’ve never met your mother, but I can guarantee that no Human would voluntarily spend the entirety of their life in a marriage if the, ah, reproductive activities were as horrible and joyless as you describe.  Even a Human overcome by the madness of love wouldn’t agree to that.”

“She is . . . highly compassionate.  That might motivate her to . . .”

“Take pity on your father when he was affected by his cycle, but would she have lived with him as long as she has if there was no joy to their relationship?  You left home more than 15 years ago.  She could easily have lived a separate life since then and merely accommodated your father in his time of need, if compassion or pity were all that were in play.”

“Many Vulcan couples do live completely separate lives.  My father and his first wife kept different households,” Spock acknowledged.

“And he chose a Human for his second wife.  Didn’t you ever wonder why?”

“My father always refused to speak of such things.  I never did understand why such an eminently logical Vulcan chose a Human wife.”

“I can tell you exactly why he chose her.”

“You can’t know something like that,” Spock protested.

“He married her because it was logical,” Kirk said, without a trace of doubt.

“Logical?”

“Totally.  Given the choice of tying yourself to someone who resented the emotions generated during a mating drive that you have no power to refuse or someone who accepted those so-called weaknesses with compassion and love, which partner would any logical person choose?”

Kirk’s argument was nearly as overwhelming as the offer that had inspired this topic.  Spock felt as if the very fundament had crumbled beneath his feet.  His logical and unemotional father had chosen his mother _because_ she was emotional?  The very idea seemed blasphemous, and, yet . . . Kirk’s postulation was sound.  Given the choice between someone who recoiled in disgust from one’s emotion-torn mind and someone who didn’t scorn contact with such unharnessed feelings, what would any logical being choose?

“I concede to the logic of your argument,” Spock said.  “However, that in no way influences my stand on the previous topic.  For whatever reason, both my parents chose their union.  If there is a link between us, it is not of your choosing.”

Before Spock could continue, Kirk interrupted with an utterly calm, “So, I choose it now.  You have given me full warning of what’s involved and I willingly accept the consequences.”

“You . . .” Spock couldn’t think any further than that one word.

“There are no shackles here.  If you meet someone that you want to tie yourself to before your next cycle, then I will gladly be the best man at your wedding.  If you don’t, then we’ll manage.  There’s no pressure.  You get to live your life however you want to.”

“I can’t allow you to . . .”

“To what?” Kirk questioned.  “This isn’t any huge sacrifice.  Whichever way this plays out, I feel that I am the winner here.”

It took an embarrassingly loud gulp and several thwarted attempts, but Spock finally managed to ask, “Winner?”

“This is entirely selfish on my part, Spock.  Please take my word on that.”

“Selfish?”  The meaning of the word didn’t even register.  Realizing how much he was parroting Kirk, Spock snapped his mouth shut and tried to think.

“I’ve shocked you,” Jim said, the first traces of uncertainty entering his attitude.  “I didn’t intend to discomfort or embarrass you.”

“The subject matter did that,” Spock said.  “You have been nothing but compassionate and diplomatic.”

“Can’t you just accept that I want things to remain the way they are?” Kirk asked.  “If there is some kind of link between us, it doesn’t frighten me.”

“I don’t understand how that is possible,” Spock admitted.

“I know.  I could explain it to you, but if the subject matter we’ve discussed so far has been discomforting and embarrassing, my very Human explanation is going to be much worse.  Can’t you simply trust me and accept that I know what I’m doing?”

“Trust was never in question,” Spock quickly assured.  “I do understand what you’re asking, but can you understand that I would rather face whatever fate awaits me than to see you trapped in a mating situation devoid of pleasure, even if that situation were to last only for a handful of nights?  If our positions were reversed, wouldn’t you do anything in your power to spare me that?”

Spock had never seen the smile that touched Kirk’s handsome face before.  There was something shy and tentative to it and yet below that outer bashfulness, there seemed to be an almost palpable pool of serenity.  “Spock, you’re operating under a basic misconception.”

This entire conversation had already left Spock off balance.  He was completely unprepared for the flash of sensation that rushed through him at whatever that smile conveyed.  It literally stole his breath.  He knew he should take Kirk’s warning and remain silent, but whatever it was that was quivering through him demanded he follow through.  Throwing caution completely to the celestial winds, he questioned in an embarrassingly thick voice, “What type of misconception?”

“That the situation would be devoid of pleasure.  I may not know a damn thing about Vulcan biology, my friend, but the one thing I can promise you is that there will be pleasure.” 

The confidence behind that statement was absolute. 

Spock was still searching for a response – any response – that would not reveal how utterly disconcerted Kirk’s assurance had left him.  With anyone else, that type of statement would have been part and parcel of a seduction, but there was nothing out of the ordinary in Kirk’s expression or attitude.  Just the statement of facts and, underlying that, a kind of serenity.

Spock was still frantically searching for a workable reaction when Kirk continued with an almost normally voiced, “You need to stop worrying about all of this.  Go back to your quarters, get some rest.  If you want to discuss the subject further, we can.  If you don’t, that’s fine, too.  There’s only one thing I need to know before you leave.  Do you still feel that a transfer is necessary?”

Nothing about this situation made sense.  Kirk had basically just offered himself to him as a sexual partner with complete aplomb, but the question of Spock transferring out appeared to unsettle his friend.  Spock wondered if the idea of Spock’s leaving the Enterprise could really be more upsetting to Jim than the idea of being trapped in a mating situation not of his choosing.

The Vulcan in Spock was scrambling for the safety of stone, all but shrieking that he remove himself from this dangerous situation.  But, for once, the Human in Spock was the calmer of his two halves. 

James Kirk had just offered him a life unfettered by biological death sentences.  If Spock had believed in deities and prayer, being able to continue in his current position with no changes would have been what he would have asked for.  And Jim had just handed that to him, with no strings or hidden conditions.

Why Kirk would make such an offer . . . that reason clearly terrified his Vulcan side, to an extent that Spock found nearly amusing.  The Vulcan would endorse his fleeing the Enterprise for certain death, rather than risk being contaminated by a strong emotion.  Such was the logic of Vulcan.

While Spock’s Human side . . ?  Spock had never experienced such a positive, uplifting sensation.  He felt suffused with light, almost glowing inside.  Had he not known better, he would have thought himself intoxicated.

Delightful as the experience was, it was more than Spock was equipped to deal with.

While Spock stood there grappling to regain his emotional equilibrium, Jim’s face grew increasingly concerned.  “Spock?”

“Yes?” Spock started out of the near daze that had overcome him.

“Do you still want to leave the ship?”

Realizing that he had never answered Kirk’s question the first time he’d asked it, he quickly gave a negative shake of his head and tried to formulate a proper response.  Jim still appeared worried.  “No.  A transfer no longer seems necessary.”

Jim’s resulting smile was as blindingly bright as a super nova.  “That’s . . . wonderful.  Thank you, Mr. Spock.”

“No, it is I who owe you the thanks.  There are no words –”

Spock’s stammering, inadequate attempt at expressing his gratitude was interrupted with a soft, “None are necessary.  Not in this situation.  Like I said before, I’m the winner here.”

Bewildered, Spock didn’t seem able to take his gaze off Jim’s glittering eyes.

When the silence stretched to the point of discomfort, Jim cleared his throat and appeared to force himself to look elsewhere.  “Well, I’m, ah, glad we cleared that up.  Did you want to discuss this further?”

Jim appeared abruptly worried.

Spock did have dozens of questions, but his friend was correct in one thing.  There was no way he could handle Jim’s very Human explanation for all this tonight.  He needed to think about everything that had passed between them, what had been said, and, perhaps more importantly, the things that had remained unspoken.  But he couldn’t do that while his mind was swirling with these unprecedented, pleasant sensations.  He needed some distance, some . . . control.

Finding his voice, Spock answered in what he hoped, rather than knew, was a tone somewhere near normal.  Even to his own ears, his voice sounded deeper, thicker somehow.  “No, I’ve . . .”  His words broke off as he noticed what appeared to be a shiver pass through his companion.  Drawing a deep breath, Spock managed to clear his throat and continue with, “I’ve taken up enough of your time.  It is late.  I will return to my quarters.”

Something like regret shadowed Jim’s handsome face for a moment before his features softened and he offered a fond, “Sleep well, Mr. Spock.”

“You as well . . .”  Using Kirk’s title felt wrong somehow, so finished with, “. . . Jim.”

Ripping his gaze from the indescribable, appealing emotions in Jim’s eyes, Spock rose to his feet, placed his half-empty glass on the edge of the desk, and walked with controlled steps to the door.  The Vulcan in him wanted to run.  The Human in him wanted to linger, despite the danger he could sense in doing so.

_Danger?_

He had no idea what had just happened.  Why the Vulcan was so terrified, why his Human part was upset by his withdrawal.  As if unmoored by some horrific planetary cataclysm, stone and sand swirled inside him, both overwhelmed by the ascension of that glowing sensation that had flashed through him when Jim had said he was choosing the link.  Now he had three forces vying for supremacy inside him, Spock realized as he paused outside his captain’s closed door.

Spock knew he should be alarmed by this new development.  The two opposing elements he’d spent his entire life juggling already caused too much strife, only . . . this new ingredient wasn’t trying destroy the other two.  It was like the warmth of Vulcan’s sun, shining on both divisive forces . . . somehow soothing them by its very nature. 

Yet, this newcomer wasn’t completely alien, Spock thought, trying to place the familiarity as he made his way through the Enterprise’s empty corridors to his own cabin.  It was only as his own doors swooshed closed behind him that he pinpointed where he’d encountered it before.  This was what Jim’s mind felt like.  Each and every time he had touched Jim’s thoughts, this warmth had encompassed him like an embrace.

For a moment, Spock panicked, thinking that he’d been wrong before about Kirk not being able to form the same type of link with him that a telepath would.  But as he studied the phenomenon, his concerns faded.  Whatever this was, it wasn’t intruding on him from without.  This buoyant brightness was emanating from deep within himself . . . a direct product of his encounter with Jim tonight.  It wasn’t tumultuous in nature like all the other emotions that had assailed him throughout the years. 

As Spock attempted to understand it, all he knew for certain was that it seemed to be making him stronger.  He wasn’t even certain it was an emotion.  Though, what else it could be, he didn’t know.  Its qualities were akin to the sense of confidence he allowed himself to experience when working out an equation or playing his harp. 

After the stressful month Spock had endured while attempting to find the strength to do the right thing, this felt almost like a gift.  Whatever it was, he was too weary to wrestle with it tonight.

Logic said he should ignore it until it faded away, but Spock wasn’t certain he wanted it gone.  So, he studied it as he removed his boots and slipped out of his uniform. 

Entering his sleeping alcove in his black tee shirt and underpants, his gaze settled on the ember-lit statue of the ancient Vulcan deity, Sutteiren, ancient god of music and balance.  The smoking, slow burning incense he kept in the brazier built into Sutteirn’s base was dying out.

Few Vulcans displayed such holdovers of their superstitious past.  But Spock had always been drawn to the myth of Suttieren, who had mastered the destructive passions raging within through music. 

Spock remembered how deeply his father had disapproved when Spock and his aged sehlat had stumbled across this antiquity in one of the disused basement wings and hauled the monstrosity up to his bedroom.  That had been one of their more memorable disagreements, nearly as unpleasant as the one that had followed when he’d purchased his harp and taught himself to play using ancient texts for guidance.  Sarek had never been able to comprehend Spock’s interest in these archaic practices that harked back to Vulcan’s savage past.  All his father had ever wanted was for him to be the same as the other Vulcan boys.  There had been no way to explain that these antiquities reminded Spock that he wasn’t the only Vulcan in history to struggle with emotion.  Knowing that some other Vulcan had undergone the same battle, even if it were millennia ago, was comforting. 

As he paused to retrieve some more trillium root from the curtained shelf below the statue to refresh the burner, Spock couldn’t help but wonder what Sarek would think of the alliance he had forged tonight.  Spock had all but agreed to take his male, Human captain as his legal mate.  Doubtless, the consequences of this rash and perhaps ill-conceived action would present themselves in the clear light of day, but at the moment, Spock realized that he was at peace with the decision.

Like the statue and his harp, Kirk’s offer brought solace with it.  Vulcan’s biological imperatives were not going to kill him.  Just the memory of Jim promising him that they would continue as if nothing had changed made that new energy flare through him.  Deciding to view the phenomenon as a bridge between sand and stone, Spock brushed the trillium dust from his hands and slipped between the cool sheets of his bed.

After tonight’s events, Spock expected to endure another sleepless night.  But as soon as he settled his head on his pillow, breathing in the sweet incense that had signified emotional balance in ancient times, his mind stilled.  That new brightness seeped through him, lulling all worries, silencing even the Vulcan.

Jim had said everything would be all right.  While the universe might be rife with uncertainty and broken promises, the one thing Spock had learned he could count on was James Kirk.  The last conscious thought Spock experienced as he finally tumbled over into much needed sleep was Jim’s smile.

 

 

 


End file.
